Reunion
by Mandolin77
Summary: There was no doubt in his mind who it was slumped over the counter: no amount of time could ever erase the spark of recognition that alighted in his chest.


Each paragraph switches back and forth between Jazz and Frederic's POV.

* * *

><p>People around him were whispering, backing away, moving into the shadows and out the door, and Jazz couldn't find it in himself to care. Let them be scared, what the hell. Maybe he <em>wanted<em> them to be scared. He certainly hadn't gone to great lengths to look approachable, still dressed in his battle armor and wielding a sword bigger than most of the patrons in the bar. All he cared about was getting a drink, something stiff enough to calm the emotions that kept threatening to drown him because _what if Frederic wasn't here?_ What if he'd moved on, what if he'd _died_ and Jazz hadn't even been there, been too busy fighting this fucked up war he didn't even start—

He took a deep breath and another swallow of whatever it was that was currently burning in the back of his throat and those tears were from the alcohol, not the anger. Not the fear. I'm not crying, goddamn it, I'm not, I'm not, I'm not. Fearless leaders don't cry.

xXXx

Frederic had dropped everything the minute he'd heard, the same way he'd been doing for years. It was almost ridiculous, the way his heart leapt up in his throat whenever he caught wind of a stranger in town, but he couldn't help it. He wasn't sure he would want to even if he could. There was nothing like that feeling, that sudden anxiety, that _hope_…

The residents of the little town just thought he was friendly: comes out to meet every single new arrival, always got a smile on his face. They had no idea where that smile came from, and what would they say if they did? They wouldn't understand anyway. It was the sort of thing that could never be explained, the smear of white and crimson and the silver catch of steel in the moonlight, hands and bodies intertwined as they sobbed together – love lust ecstasy and bliss, and faith, and promise and love, love, love, goodbye.

A holy palmer's prayer.

xXXx

Jazz traced the scar through the rawhide glove, not needing to see it anymore to know every curve, every bump. He could feel it burning still. It took up the whole inside of his left hand, starting at the pulse in his wrist and all the way up to the first knuckle of his ring finger, far more permanent than any wedding band. Frederic had carved it in, and Jazz had been sure he would never see anything more beautiful than his lover's red lips pressed against the blooming, bleeding wound that stood out against his already marred skin.

He had done the same to Frederic's long-fingered hand, the same place, the same soft kiss. And when that kiss led somewhere further he didn't fight it, just kept going, just followed what felt good and right the way he always did. Blood wasn't erotic in his mind, he'd seen too much of pain, but when it kept flowing he let it, following dutifully in the wake of his wandering hands. He would never forget that scene, white-cum-copper lover under him in the weak firelight, mouth open and eyes closed and lips moving, whispering. Praying. And the words hadn't faltered as they joined.

xXXx

He'd had his heart broken over again so many times by people who weren't _him_… but he knew he wouldn't stay away. And maybe it was stupid, to keep holding onto hope all these years later, and maybe the man he dreamt about was dead by now but maybe, maybe he wasn't. Maybe Jazz was still looking for him, too, and that thought was what forced his feet forward outside the bar when his resolve inside was weakening.

The place was dark, it was always dark, and more crowded than usual despite what the gossip said. They came to gawk and whisper and giggle behind the strangers' backs, and it was the closest thing to danger most of them would ever come across. Still, they stayed near the door, huddled together as though under the impression that might save them if worse came to worse. When they saw Frederic they all reached out to tug at his sleeves, _don't go near him, he's bad news. Don't go near him_. He simply smiled and walked past, nodding to show that he had heard – he just didn't care.

xXXx

He was almost tempted to turn around and brandish the oversized blade in their faces. You want to know if it works? Well why don't you come here and find out. It was ridiculous, of course, bordering upon childish, but he was so sick of them gossiping like he couldn't hear. Yes, I have a gun. Yes, it's loaded. Yes, it could blow your head off if I was so inclined, so why don't you just mind your own fucking business and let me tend to mine? But he didn't turn around and he didn't pull a weapon, he'd been in the war business long enough to know that violence only breeds violence and the whole situation would spiral out of his control before he'd even gained it.

He knew the address; he'd been clutching the crumpled piece of paper for hours now in the same fist, certain not to lose it even though he knew the numbers by heart, Crescendo's scrawled handwriting smudged in places where he'd run his forefinger across the letters to make sure they were real. Right then was not the time to go knocking on old lover's doors, though. He was far too sober for that.

xXXx

There was no doubt in his mind who it was slumped over the counter: no amount of time could ever erase the spark of recognition that alighted in his chest. The dark hair was longer than it had been, all the way down past his shoulders and held in place with the same ragged black ribbon, and even from here Frederic could see the muddied yellow of his boots, the hard glint of blue earrings. It took everything he had not to start running.

His neighbors held him more forcefully, _are you crazy? Do you want to die? _And the answer was yes, he wanted to die if that's what this was, if this was death. Beautiful death. He had waited so, so long for this, and he pushed them away and kept walking, he couldn't wait any longer. Any fantasies he'd ever had about playing hard to get just disappeared as he came closer and he could _smell _the coffee and damp earth as he wrapped his arms about the other man's shoulders and held him tight.

xXXx

Small hands touched his upper arms, and that was all the warning he had before someone was embracing him from behind, crying softly. He was overwhelmed with all the things he'd forgotten, the touch of fine hair and scent of old papers, fingers that were too long and wrists that were too thin enfolding his waist, sliding against the fastidious embroidery of his vest. He felt hot tears on the back of his neck.

A cheek brushed against his, a whisper against the shell of his ear. _You came back_. And he nodded, too choked up to speak, yes, yes, I came. I did, I promised you I would, no matter what. No matter what. Then soft lips on his jaw and he turned and met them, kept his eyes open to see his lover for the first time in ten years. He looked just exactly the same, dark, patient eyes and pale skin, and even if his hair was duller now and graying he looked just exactly the same, just as beautiful as he had been the last night they were together, the last morning waving him goodbye. It _ached_ and it felt wonderful, wonderful, and Frederic wound their wounded hands together and kissed him fully.

xXXx

He knew there was a reason he'd never stopped looking, never gave up hope, but he hadn't known what that reason was until just now. Even when Crescendo had held both his shoulders and whispered that maybe Jazz was never coming back some part of him was convinced otherwise, Jazz wouldn't leave him like that, not for anything, not after he'd promised to come home. Frederic had trusted the man with everything he had… and here he was. He had known that he would come back; nothing could keep this apart, this love apart.

Strong hands stretched out across the small of his back and he would never forget that familiar feeling, the warmth and acquaintance and safety that came with the touch of Jazz's body against his. This was unforgettable, undeniable, and he knew why he'd kept hoping. This was something worth waiting forever for, something he'd dreamt about for ten long years, and if distance makes the heart grow fonder this was devotion, this was ardor, this was passion and fidelity and everything in between.

xXXx

Ten years was a long time, and some part of him had wondered if Frederic would still be there – if he would still be _alone_. But every insecurity that had bred in the wake of their distance was gone now as the man pressed against him the same way he always had, shy and bashful and perfect. It was nothing short of perfect. He could hear people whispering louder now, some of them whistling and cheering but mostly just stunned into silence as the he caught Frederic's mouth again, harder. _I love you_. I missed you. He mumbled the words against his lips and gods, he had missed this. He would give anything, anything just to always know there was someone here by his side the way there was now.

The slighter man pulled away just a little to murmur in his ear. "Come home with me?" Jazz nodded mutely, feeling like he could drown in those eyes that were staring into his, and tightened his fingers on the nape of his lover's neck. He couldn't stand to let go. "And promise you're never leaving," the voice sent shivers down his spine, there was so much emotion, so many sentiments he could never put a name to. "Promise me you'll never leave."

xXXx

If Jazz left again he would wait, he knew he would wait, but some part of him throbbed at just the thought, just the very idea. He could handle being alone, he'd been alone before, but he couldn't_ lose _this. They couldn't lose this. Not again, not after so long and now so close and he couldn't go back to writing letters that would never be sent, back to saying prayers to a god he'd long since forgotten because _words without thoughts never to heaven go_.

They'd made so many promises, back when they were both foolish with love and much younger than their years, and so many more when their time had started running out of the hourglass. Declarations of love and want and hopes and dreams and desires; I'd kill for you, I'd die for you, you're the sun and moon and stars and _everything_, you're my everything. But there was one still that echoed in his ears late at night, staring into the star-struck darkness before the dawn— I would live for you. I will live for you. And it was those words that gave him courage when the morning finally came.

xXXx

"No," he whispered against the sharp collarbone, "Never." It had been an unfeasible, unbearable choice, his love or his freedom, his country or his home, and there wasn't a day that went by he didn't think again and again about how he'd picked the wrong one. There was nothing worth the hell he'd been through, missing the only good thing he'd ever had, missing the only spark of beauty and vibrancy in this whole fucked-up life of his. There wasn't a day that went by that he didn't wonder at the sheer amount of affection he felt for the little lover he'd left at home.

If he could choose again he'd do it differently. He'd tell Frederic the whole country could go fuck themselves, he wasn't moving, they couldn't make him move, and he would gather the man into his arms and hold him there for forever. But the scar on his palm burned gently and he remembered again that these things – all these things – happen for reasons he couldn't always understand.

xXXx

Frederic led him away from the bar, remembering, marveling the way he always did at how Jazz's hand was so much bigger than his and how it fit entirely, completely, in the space between his fingers. The rawhide gloves were soft and worn through except in the places where the fabric was stiff with dried blood, and that was good, too, because it was _Jazz_ and Jazz was prefect in every wrong, twisted fault.

He just wanted to be home again, in that home he hadn't seen in a decade of days. In that home that seemed to follow his lover, only his lover, everywhere he went. That home of peace-dark and soft breaths, lying on a pillow that had a heartbeat and smearing sweet kisses across taut, tanned skin. It was that place he went back to sometimes, behind his eyelids where he couldn't quite reach it, when some familiar memory brought home flooding back.

xXXx

People parted around them, mindful of the colossal sword the stranger carried, and they muttered under their breaths, _who is he, who is this man, what right does he have come in here and– ? _Frederic laughed gently, squeezing his hand. Frederic laughed and the crowds went silent and gods, Jazz had fallen in love with that sound a dozen times over at least. "My husband," he called to no one and everyone at the same time. "This is my husband."

Jazz wasn't sure he'd ever heard a more beautiful word, and never, never one that applied to him. This man that was leading him down crowded empty streets was the whole world to him, his lover and partner and friend and confidant and always-patient voice of reason and the only thing he could give back was that one word – husband. And he was _proud_ to carry that title, for forever if Frederic would let him.


End file.
